Walk On Water
by Dark Eyed Seer
Summary: On October 31st, 1981, Voldemort set something into motion no one could have predicted. He created in Harry an injury in both magic and mind. But truer words were never spoken than 'that which does not kill us, makes us stronger.'
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: On the surface, this story may appear to be a 'Super! Harry'. It's not, or at least, it's not really about that. I have reasons for writing him this way, they are Voldemort related, but it will slowly become secondary to Harry private internal struggles. Being this way has brought him only fleeting happiness and that is the point. Harry has filled himself with knowledge in an effort (that he's only slightly aware of) to take the place of love, friendship, and acceptance. Realizing this and trying to overcome this tendency is what the story really is for. Harry is very, very good at fixing other people's problems, he has never addressed his own and they are serious.**

Harry Potter had always been an unusual boy.

When he was sixteen or seventeen months old (the Dursleys never bothered to keep track, they tried their hardest to ignore him completely) he began speaking in complete, perfectly enunciated sentences.

His vocabulary grew so rapidly it was unnerving. By the time his second birthday rolled around (the Dursleys naturally hadn't celebrated it, of course) he was asking questions about things he heard on the news at night through the thin walls of his cupboard.

He wanted to know why the Middle East was in such conflict and why it had yet to be resolved.

It wasn't long after that that he began giving his opinions on the National Debt, the global warming concerns, and the judicial system.

XXXXX

He taught himself to read one afternoon when Petunia left him alone in the house. He figured out the closed captioning options for the hearing impaired and in the space of two hours watched Monty Python's Flying Circus, Blackadder, and Fawlty Towers.

He could read perfectly and it had instilled in him a very odd sense of humour.

Then he immediately began reading everything he could get his tiny hands on.

The Dursleys were not readers. They did, however, have a sizable collection of expensive leather bound books that had never been so much as cracked. It was purely for show and on display in the sitting room.

They had a set of Encyclopaedia Britannica, a massive dictionary, an atlas, and a thesaurus. Harry began here.

By the time he was four he'd read every book on the shelves, from Austen to Yeats and everything in between. And what was most disconcerting was that he could repeat them verbatim. All of them.

He often supplied the Dursleys with literary opinions, definitions, and a kind of poetic self-expression that went completely unappreciated.

It was then he decided that he would learn to write if only to convey on paper, the millions of thoughts going through his head in the run of a day. Sometimes they pressed at him, refusing to allow him sleep.

So Harry found a lost pencil that had fallen behind the hutch in the hall and used Vernon's discarded newspapers (which he read every day from cover to cover once the Dursley Patriarch had skimmed the headlines and tossed it away) to practice printing letters in the margins.

He constantly raided the wastepaper baskets for paper, knowing better than to even bother asking for some.

He wrote and he drew.

And he drew impossibly accurately; the perspectives were flawless as well as the value, and the proportions. He drew photograph-like images of trees and flowers he saw working in the back garden. He drew portraits from memory of people he encountered when Petunia was forced to take him shopping with her.

He never drew the Dursleys; he had no desire to whatsoever.

There was a large upright piano in the sitting room and Harry taught himself to play by ear. He could recreate just about any piece of music, and not only that, but he used the piano keys to express things. He played Petunia Rushing About, Dudley Waddling In, and Vernon's Anger.

But it wasn't long before he was completely bored. He needed more books.

So the next time Petunia left him alone, he took the loose change he'd been collecting from Vernon's pockets when he did the laundry and took the bus.

The library in Surrey wasn't terribly large but it was a haven to the neglected boy.

It was there he discovered mathematics, sciences, art, music, history, languages, and a wealth of fiction to lose himself in.

He forged Petunia's signature and got his very own library card.

The librarians always raised their eyebrows when they saw a child, possibly not even school-aged judging by his size, taking out subjects like Organic Chemistry, Quantum Physics, and Chaos Theory, but since he always returned them within a few days they decided to indulge the strange little boy.

Harry was in his element, he breathed knowledge, his mind making huge leaps of logic from the information presented. He wished desperately that he could write it all out, maybe then it would give him some peace.

But paper was precious and he used most of it drawing.

Harry had great hopes for school. He thought that finally he would be with children like him; obviously the Dursleys were simply mentally incompetent. He supposed it wasn't their fault.

After all, when Harry played the family piano, Vernon often referred to pieces like Chopin's Nocturne in G Major and Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata as "that racket". Obviously some people were beyond hope.

Even their bizarre hatred of him was sort of understandable if you just chalked it up to ignorance.

Harry honestly tried to please them, he always had. He cooked perfect gourmet meals, he balanced the chequebook, did their taxes.

Nothing helped. He was an ugly, disgusting, know-it-all freak.

So Harry turned his attention to anticipating school and the promise of a better future.

He was bitterly, bitterly disappointed.

XXXXX

He was in a bright, cheerful classroom with nineteen other five year olds staring in disbelief as the teacher led them in singing the alphabet.

He sat stunned as they played a counting game and learned shapes.

By 'naptime' he gave up completely, pulled out his current novel and hid in the playhouse.

The teacher found the boy, a copy of Machiavelli's _The Prince _in front of his little face.

"Hi, Harry, don't you want to come out and practice your letters?"

The boy gave her a wounded look and shook his head.

"Well, when you're done looking at the book you can come out and join the rest of us. Learning new things are important, Harry. Don't you want to be able to read books like that for real someday?"

Harry suddenly felt like throwing up. The Dursleys were right. He was a freak.

"I can read just fine, thank you."

The woman gave him a simpering, indulgent smile, "Did your Mum and Dad teach you? Maybe we could find you a book that's a bit more appropriate."

"I don't have a mum and dad and I like this book."

The woman looked distressed and left.

Harry went back to reading, he was nearly finished, and Machiavelli excited him. It made things so clear and possible. He didn't actually want to seize power anywhere particular, but he could. He realized that now.

If you were smart enough, you could do anything. Anything at all.

He was starting to understand the weird things that seemed to happen around him when he got upset. Things shattered and flew across the room when Vernon beat him. He knocked over a glass and spilled the contents, a brief moment of panic at the violence this was likely to incite and the milk was back in the glass like it had never been disturbed.

He could make things happen. He was different but maybe that was a good thing.

Another simpering woman poked her head into the playhouse, "Harry, I'm Barbara, the school councilor. Do you need to talk about anything? Miss Adams said you mentioned your mum and dad?"

Harry blinked at her and resigned himself to interruptions, "No, thank you. My parents are dead; they died when I was a baby."

"Miss Adams said you don't want to come out and learn new things with the rest of the class."

"They aren't new things. They are simple, boring, redundant things. I already know them. I don't need to learn them again. Thank you."

Barbara blinked at him, "O.K. I think I understand. I may be able to help you. I can test you and have you placed in a higher grade if Kindergarten isn't challenging you."

This caught Harry's attention, "O.K." He marked his placed in the book and crawled out of the play house.

The tests may as well have been composed by the simpering kindy teacher.

Harry breezed through them in minutes; he put pencil to paper and didn't pause a single time.

When he finished he handed them over to a startled Barbara and picked up _The Prince _again.

He had finished it and started _A Hundred Years of Solitude _when Barbara came back into the room; she looked shaky and a bit peaky.

"I've made some calls Harry. Do you know what an I.Q. is?"

Harry defined it for her and outlined the most commonly used testing methods.

She nodded, a little wild-eyed, "Uh huh, well, after lunch a man is going to come and give you a test, O.K?"

"Alright." Harry went back to Marquez.

After lunch, as promised, an excitable young man came in carry a large box.

He showed Harry a picture for thirty seconds and asked him to tell him anything he'd noticed that was wrong.

Harry named seventeen things. Three of which were not actually listed on the testing sheet but proved to be quite correct upon examination.

He gave Harry words to group, anagrams, flattened shapes to visualize whole, number sequences.

All of this left Harry rather bored, but seemed to please the young man immensely.

Before he left he told Harry that he might be going to a special school in London. A school for children like him. Only, it wasn't really a school, it was called an Institute.

Harry dearly wanted to be pleased with this, but he knew the Dursleys would never let him go. Special schools were expensive. The Dursleys wouldn't even give him milk money.

But that night several important looking men came to number 4 Privet Drive.

"Mr. Dursley, I don't think you understand. We aren't expecting anyone to pay for this; in fact, Harry will most likely be getting paid himself."

This finally garnered a more positive reaction.

"The word 'prodigy' is simply not accurate enough. Your nephew is what we call a polymath. He is a genius, capable of operating at an extremely high level in many, many subjects. We gave him an I.Q. test, Mr. Dursley. The results are some of the highest we've ever seen, and we work in this field.

The Institute is home to some of the greatest minds in the world. We are consultants for governments, corporations, militaries, people like Harry can break codes, compose amazing pieces of music, you name it. We have twenty-six children attending right now. But none of them, none of them, even come close to what Harry is capable of. We want him Mr. Dursley; I promise you that you won't regret this."

A sizable cheque was in Vernon's hands and Harry was in the shiny black car less than twenty minutes later.

XXXXX

Harry found no friends at the Institute either, but he did find something that he had been seeking for a long time. A challenge.

At least once a week, Roger would interrupt Harry's experiments, his music time, or his artwork to bring in a new project.

Harry created codes and ciphers and broke them. Harry drew up business plans, wrote film scripts and advertisements, and provided innumerable other services.

They wanted him to create, not just learn and understand. And this was intoxicating.

At night, in his room, Harry would do things that defied all the scientific laws he knew so well. He felt almost compelled to, like there was some great force inside of him dying to be exercised.

He levitated everything that wasn't bolted down. He started small fires. He made things disappear and reappear. He changed things into other things. It was exhilarating.

But it was also frustrating. He found no information on these strange abilities anywhere and it was the first time books had failed him.

Time passed, Harry accomplished more and more, completing multiple university degrees in the space of two or three years.

And every night, alone, he gradually developed his new powers because someday, he may very well need them. No one would ever hurt him again if he could set them on fire.

XXXXX

Harry often got mail; it was mostly feedback from the results of his latest efforts. This did not interest him in the slightest. Once something was complete it was over, he wanted, needed, to move on.

But this letter was different. The sight of it called to his Power in a way nothing had before.

It was a thick creamed coloured enveloped addressed in shiny green calligraphy and seal with a crest in red wax.

_Harry Potter_

_The Institute for the Gifted_

_23 Cartham Road_

_London_

_Dear Mr. Potter…_

Harry put the letter down once he had finished reading and took several deep breaths. He'd been waiting a long time for something like this.

_We await your owl by no later than July 31__st_

There was a school for people who could do things like he could. It wasn't telepathy or telekinesis (which were the closest things Harry had previously ascribed it to) it was magic.

This meant there must be a lot of other people who could do this and all under the radar of the common man. They must have their own world!

Harry, who was rapidly exhausting the knowledge available in the world he was in, rejoiced.

He needed to find a bloody owl.

He searched through his desk drawer for some good stationary and his fountain pen and put his best calligraphy to the test.

To Whom It May Concern,

I accept your invitation to attend your most esteemed school, but I must request help in obtaining the necessary supplies on the list. I am afraid I am very much ignorant of where I could possible purchase them.

If you would be so kind as to send me a pamphlet with directions to some magical shops, I would be most appreciative.

Thank you.

Sincerely,

Harry Potter

Harry went out into the courtyard after carefully addressing the letter. He had no seal or wax, so the glue seal would have to do.

There was a large barn owl perched on one of the statues. It was the middle of the day and Harry took this to be a very fortuitous sign.

The owl glided down to the bench as he approached.

"Excuse me, I don't really know how this works, but could you take this to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for me?"

The owl hooted and snatched the letter from his hand.

The next day, there was another letter, larger this time because it included the requested pamphlet (which apart from giving clear directions to a place called Diagon Alley was completely useless as far as Harry could tell) a golden key, and a train ticket to Platform 9 ¾.

Harry stared at the ticket and recalled every memory he had of King's Cross Station. He was quite confident that fractions were not included in the normal numbering of terminals.

The short note included explained the key was to his vault at Gringotts and it also assured him his tuition had been paid since he was born.

It hit him then. The Dursleys had always known. If his mother and father had belonged in this world, Petunia at least had to have known. This wasn't surprising exactly; they had always been very concerned with the strange things he did.

It was no matter. He needed to find this Diagon Alley.

XXXXX

Harry took the bus that afternoon to the street the pamphlet told him about and he spotted The Leaky Cauldron right away. The pamphlet had suggested Muggleborns and their families request to be let in to the Alley from the Barkeep. But Harry just waited quietly by the backdoor until one of the people in the strange robes went through and followed.

His heart gave a great leap, there were fantastic things everywhere! He felt almost overwhelmed by new information, something that had never happened to him before. He spent a few happy moments just looking at everything. Until he spotted the bookshop, he almost ran right over before he remembered he needed special currency, and for that he needed to visit the bank.

After asking Griphook the current Galleon to Pound exchange rate, Harry was confident the contents of his vault would last him until well after he finished school. So in Flourish and Blott's he went a bit wild.

First he supplied himself with several reference books for each magical subject he saw on the list. Then he collected supplementary and more advanced texts. Finally, he found a selection of books about the Wizarding world itself, compounded magic, potions, and alchemy theory and his actual course books.

Fortunately, the shopkeeper neatly packed, shrunk, and lightened the small library he had purchased and Harry tucked the packages carefully in his satchel.

Harry bought potions equipment and supplies beyond well beyond the basic things the class required. The idea of potions excited him. He held a graduate degree in Chemistry from Oxford, and he'd always enjoyed cooking. He really hoped to set up his own small lab.

He was fitted for school robes and uniforms, he allowed himself a treat from the ice cream parlour, and seriously considered the possibility of a pet.

He was licking his Mint Chocolate Cookie staring into the window of Eyelop's Owl Emporium thoughtfully.

Having an owl would be difficult to explain to the Institute. Oh, he knew very well he wouldn't be prevented from keeping it, but they may have questions.

He was already trying to figure out what to tell them. They wouldn't be pleased he would be gone almost ten months of the year. Perhaps he should try writing to the school again asking for advice. He had quite a collection of quills, inks, and parchment now. He would need to practice using a quill; he hated messiness in his work.

In the end, he bought a snowy white owl and went off in search of the last item, a wand.

Ollivander annoyed him. That it took so very long to find 'his' wand annoyed him further.

But nothing compared to when he finally did. He felt a rush of power, flicked the holly creation slightly and created a swirl of stars. It took absolutely no effort.

Wandless, wordless magic wasn't terribly hard work, but it had taken him a long time to perfect his control and channel his power. This stick would do that for him.

Harry saw immediately what this was. A crutch. Like a calculator was for ordinary people who could not figure things out otherwise.

He paid the requested amount and carefully put the wand away with all the shrunken packages in his satchel and vowed never to come to depend on it for anything.

He would learn the words and the wand flicks and cast both ways. But he would NOT lean on this piece of wood.

XXXXX

Harry announced to Roger that he was pursuing independent study in his room and asked not to be disturbed. And in the next five weeks he devoured his new books, practicing every spell he came across both with the words and the wand, and without.

Ollivander had said very strange things to him and Harry soon discovered they were true. He was referenced in at least four of his books, as The Boy Who Lived. He wasn't quite sure how he felt about this.

He wrote to the Headmaster the week before he was to leave asking him what he should say to the Muggles that ran the Institute. He really hadn't been expecting a personal visit.

XXXXX

"I can't believe this, Albus. All this time the boy has been outside the wards! It's not safe! How can this have happened?" Deputy Headmistess MacGonagall had worked herself up thoroughly over what could have happened.

Harry Potter's letter had explained that since the age of five he had lived at a special school in London. Everyone was quite confused about the Muggle term 'gifted'. The Muggle Studies teacher had looked it up; it simply meant that the boy was bit cleverer than his peers.

Snape had rolled his eyes at this, but most everyone else nodded. Lily and James had both been brilliant students; of course their son was smart.

"He must be retrieved immediately. He can remain here for the final week but next summer he must return to the Dursleys and the Blood Wards." Albus said finally, "Severus, would you kindly go to this 'institute' and bring back Harry Potter."

The Potions Master winced.

XXXXX

Harry was already packed up. He'd discovered the concept of Wizard Space in one of the advanced charms books and used it on his trunk. Nearly everything in his room was neatly stowed away and the trunk itself was lightened. This was no small accomplishment, Harry had an extensive library of his own, and a great many musical instruments, scientific equipment, art supplies, and academic clothing.

He was almost disappointed that he had gone through so many of his books already, but he cheered up when he realized the school would have a library and there was always Owl Order.

He was figuring out the charms he needed for his laptop to work in a magical environment when he was interrupted by a knock on his door. He frowned; it couldn't possibly be anyone from the school. The Do Not Disturb sign on his door, like it would be on any of the others, was law.

XXXXX

Severus Snape had never been comfortable in Muggle surroundings, despite being a half-blood. They were alien, he didn't understand them and there was nothing he hated more than things he didn't understand.

The Institute was a large, stone building with a long winding road leading to a bright courtyard. He passed through the tall, arched doorway undetected and into the bright foyer. Skylights overhead bathed the room in sunlight and it scattered, gleaming, across the marble floors.

There were rooms filled with odd black or grey boxes with glass screens, rooms that almost looked like the Muggle version of a Potions Lab, but they had strange devices and beakers.

He found Potter's room without difficulty; his name was inscribed on the door in gold plating. Severus snorted at this, of course, nothing but the best for a Potter.

There was a clear, black sign on it that read 'Do Not Disturb'. Severus took great pleasure in disobeying it.

He did actually wait for the muffled 'come in'; however, he wasn't completely without manners.

The boy rose at his entrance, he was small and very slender, his hair was the same inky mess his father's had been. He was wearing a pair of light coloured trousers and a short sleeved button-down shirt with a soft plaid pattern in blue, green, and white. His shoes looked expensive and were well polished.

Severus quietly scrutinized his features. He wore glasses like his father but the bright eyes behind them were pure Lily Evans even down to their odd slant.

His features were much finer than James Potter's, also clearly Lily's influence. He had Potter's strong jaw and slightly cleft chin, but also Lily's high cheekbones and small straight nose. The boy, was unfortunately, even more attractive then either of his parents.

But the universe had never been fair; Severus supposed it wasn't likely to start now. His eyes slide to the infamous lightening bolt shaped scar on his forehead. Well, at least his face had one flaw.

Even though everyone in the Wizarding World would most likely call it the most attractive thing on earth for what it represented.

"You must be from Hogwarts." The boy remarked and, obviously noticing Severus's raised, questioning eyebrow, elaborated, "No one without magic is likely to get through the security here. Or knock on my door when the sign is up."

Severus gritted his teeth at having to pander to an obviously arrogant and pampered child, and a Potter to boot, "I have been sent to retrieve you by the Headmaster. Ready yourself."

The boy didn't react to his glare or his icy tone, instead he proceeded to pack the stack of clothing and books on his nightstand into his trunk and slide the flat, black Muggle device on his bed into a brown leather satchel.

Severus watched impassively as he coaxed his owl into her cage and covered it. Lastly he took down a perfectly tailored tweed blazer with leather elbow patches from the coat rack and put it on. He shouldered the satchel and looked up at Snape expectantly.

The room was now barren save the trunk, the cage, and the two of them. Severus pulled out the newspaper port key and instructed the boy (in short, irritated tones) to sit on his trunk and place one hand on the cage, the other on the paper he held out.

Severus spoke the password and they were immediately tugged to the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts.

XXXXX

**Author's Note: (Yes, again.) I got the idea for this story while watching a documentary about prodigies on the Discovery Channel. I've always been fascinated by the human brain, my own I.Q. is considered high at 167, but I don't even come close to the children and adults on this program. Basically, we all have the capacity for genius. The proof of this is in the accidents and injuries that have caused ordinary people to suddenly become beyond brilliant at something: art, piano, mathematics, etc. Our brains are simply disorganized.**

**Voldemort could have been such a spark to ignite in Harry his total mental and magical potential. Harry will point these facts out to people often, though he will be disbelieved by most, who are content with simply thinking of him as the super genius, all powerful saviour. **

**Harry loved challenges more than anything else because for him they are so hard to come by. Voldemort presented him with the ultimate challenge at fifteen months old and he overcame it, though it exists only in the very back of his subconscious, he is always seeking new triumphs.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: If anyone should happen to be wondering why there is so much description and so little dialogue, it's because Harry's world is almost entirely internal. People, places, events, don't really affect him. He's disconnected. I promise this will change a bit later on and then more so again, so bear with me in the meantime. Oh, and I doubt I'll manage fifteen pages a chapter ever again, sorry but the rest will most likely be shorter like this one.**

"Harry, my boy, I'm very pleased to have you here at last!" The old man behind the desk looked exactly like the standard Muggle stereotype of a wizard. In fact, his resemblance to Gandalf from _Lord of the Rings_ was almost disturbing. Harry did have to restrain a wince at the demeaning 'my boy' address, however.

"Pleased to meet you, Headmaster Dumbledore." Harry stood and bowed his head differentially, he'd learned well from his time in Asia.

"I must say I was most concerned to hear that you had left the house of your relatives. I placed you there for your own protection, you know."

Harry was well accustomed to schooling his emotions and keeping them out of his face and voice. But this very nearly made him crack. He breathed carefully through his nose.

Throughout his early childhood he had wondered what horrible person or government agency had placed him with the Dursleys. Now he had his answer.

"You must return there next summer, of course. There are complicated blood wards…"

Harry nodded politely and impassively throughout the explanation. He knew it was pointless to argue. Harry rarely bothered to argue. He simply nodded like a good boy and then promptly did exactly as he pleased the minute the attention on him was gone.

But deep in his heart a special sort of hate settled in him for this old man. Because of him Harry had suffered for the first five years of his life. He still had deep physical and psychological scars.

He cared nothing for the excuse of blood wards. It was almost a laughable excuse. After reading _Hogwarts: A History _he knew no former Death Eaters would cross the grounds here. And even then, safe houses could be set up under powerful charms like the Fidelius. It would be laughable, but Harry rarely laughed, and he certainly didn't feel the need to laugh now.

Oh, no, this man cared nothing for him personally. He was a symbol and a possible weapon. In fact, it was very likely that this man thought an abusive, neglectful environment would mould Harry into a better soldier. After all, he had an incredibly high pain tolerance because of it, didn't he? He could function for days, even weeks on little to no food. The Dursleys had done their very best to wipe out any trace of self-worth he might be clinging to, this would make him easy to manipulate.

It might have even worked if it went on long enough. But Harry had been his own deliverance from evil. Harry had always known that the only one in the world he could depend on to look out for his interests was himself. There was no better illustration than this moment.

The idea that he had placed him at number 4 Privet Drive to protect him was possibly the sickest thing he'd ever heard. Vernon Dursley himself had very nearly killed him on more than one occasion. He honestly didn't know how the man could manage to say it with a straight face.

But nothing of these thoughts showed on his face, no, on the surface he was nodding politely as if great wisdom were being imparted.

But this office made him feel dirty and he was very pleased to leave it.

XXXXX

He was shown some temporary guest quarters by a very irritable Professor Snape, whom Harry had recently learned taught Potions. The man obviously loathed him, it was he could do, it seemed, not to lash out.

Harry didn't mind, most people hated him. No one liked the idea that they were outclassed mentally. He'd learned long ago to simply ignore it.

The man's face and form did capture his attention, however. He was very striking. Harry almost itched to draw him, maybe even paint him. Yes, in his element, bent over a potion. It would make an intriguing piece. Harry disliked drawing conventionally attractive people. Their faces were often very boring to an artist's eye.

He was looking forward to Potions, after all. Along with Herbology, they were the only classes in which he could gain practical experience.

He was disappointed by the food in the Great Hall. It wasn't bad per say, just rather bland and dull. He was accustomed to ethic and gourmet fare.

He was introduced to Madam Hooch, whom he sat next to at lunch, and he asked her where the kitchens were and who prepared the food.

And promptly after lunch, he dug out several expensive cookbooks from his trunk and went to talk to the House Elves.

They had apparently been waiting for this their entire lives.

Harry could relate they were masters of their craft; after all, it must get awfully boring preparing the same plebeian fair day in, day out.

He managed to secure directions to the library as he extracted himself from their exuberance and made his way their.

The old lady at the front desk, her placard read 'Madam Pince', glowered at him as he perused the stacks. He understood librarians, though, they were territorial creatures.

After five minutes of looking he decided that he would simply read every book here. He had seven years to do it and his mouth watered at the prospect. He eyed the Restricted Section longingly, but kept a careful distance.

If he were going to sneak into it later, he couldn't show undo interest and raise suspicions.

XXXXX

To Harry, the entire concept of school houses was entirely irrelevant. He didn't particularly care _which _group of noisy, fidgeting children he had to be thrown in with, only that he couldn't avoid the entire mess altogether.

He came downstairs a few minutes after MacGonagall had led the first years to the entrance of the Great Hall and stood several feet behind the clustered, whispering group. After the hat began its little song, he opened his book and tuned the lot of them out completely.

"Potter, Harry!"

Harry glanced up and carefully marked his place. Several people jumped at his sudden appearance and they all cleared a path. The room was completely silent. Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

He climbed on the stool, willing this to be over as quickly as possibly and balanced his heavy book on his lap.

The Sorting Hat covered his eyes and he could hear it begin to deliberate. He broke in, "Please just pick one. I really don't care which."

The Hat seemed a bit offended, but obliged, "SLYTHERIN!"

Harry yanked the thing off and attempted to hand to back to MacGonagall. This took a few tries as the woman appeared to have been struck dumb. Oh, honestly. And to think he had at first considered her reasonably intelligent. He had hoped the staff at least had the sense not to fixate on some ridiculous personality mould. As if there were only four kinds of people in the world. Unbelievable.

He sat next to an almost albino-like boy and opened his book again.

When the ceremony was finally over and the creepy old man said a bit of nonsense, the tables filled with food. Harry was pleased to find an array of expertly prepared sushi in front of him.

Albino Boy piped up, "What is _that_?"

As he happened to be pointing at the eel, Harry replied, "Unagi Nagiri. Barbecued Japanese Sea Eel. Would you like some?"

The boy then actually seemed to grow paler, Harry hadn't thought that possible, "Ugh, no! Can't you get rid of that? It's putting me off my dinner."

Harry picked up the chopsticks and expertly pinched some Saba Nagiri, "Well, perhaps you should sit elsewhere."

The boy huffed and made one of the hulking masses on his other side switch seats with him. At least this new boy kept his opinions to himself. Good riddance, Harry thought eying the Gomaae Salad.

XXXXX

The Slytherin dorms were in the dungeons; Harry paid careful attention to the route they took from the end of the line of first years.

He paid considerably less attention to the Common Room as he didn't plan on ever spending any time there. He was very pleased to discover that they were all given single rooms. That fact alone was going to make his life much more bearable.

Professor Snape was apparently their Head of House and he made all of them listen as he made a speech about the Other Houses and how it was now Slytherin versus The World, or something of that ilk. Harry really just wanted to get back to his reading and then hopefully go to bed. The Professor's eyes kept drifting in his direction, though, so he made himself look interested.

And at last he was in his own room. He immediately began building wards. He had clear memories of Dudley and he wasn't going to risk his things through simple lack of diligence. Anyone trying his door without permission was in for a bit of a shock.

He changed into pyjamas and examined the room and he was still planning out bookshelves when he drifted off to sleep

XXXXX


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: To the reviewer who corrected my spelling of McGonagall's name: You're completely right of course. I think I was a little too well trained from customer service in my part of Canada. I have no idea how it is in the U.K., but here Mac is Scottish, Mc is Irish, and heaven help you if you EVER confuse the two. **

**Being of French descent myself I find it all entirely too confusing. Even two years of university Gaelic never cleared up the great Celtic mysteries for me. Anyway, I'll now stick to the books' spelling and eventually edit the first two chapters.**

**And to all my reviewers: I love you, please keep it up.**

Harry loved the sheer physicality of running; his thoughts would slow and become clearer and more concise. And the rush of endorphins was nothing to sneeze at, either. He could run for hours. But he rarely had more than one or two to spare, and today was no exception.

The Albino Twit from the night before pulled a face as they passed on Harry's way to the showers. Which was quite ridiculous, Harry was quite clean and new sweat had little odour, especially in an eleven year old. Perhaps it was merely the idea of physical exertion. He'd already noted that the vast majority of wizards avoided that at all costs.

He let the warm water sluice down for a few minutes before he lifted the soap. Today was the first day of classes, and anticipation was palpable among the first years. He wasn't sure how he felt about it.

The Albino Twit was very sure to keep both goons between them as Harry sat down to Dim Sum. He offered Goon One a dumpling and it was refused with surprising politeness. A sandy haired boy across the table accepted several, however. Maybe there was hope for some semblance of connection.

The first class was Charms. Five minutes into it, Harry began mentally rereading Moste Potente Potions.

He composed a new violin concerto in Transfiguration.

In Defence Against the Dark Arts, Harry began some rudimentary sketches of the groundskeeper's hut he could see through the window.

This wasn't going well. Fortunately, he had a solution.

He approached McGonagall first.

"What do you mean you want to 'challenge' my course, Mr. Potter?" She took off her reading glasses to examine him closely.

"I'm sorry, is that not common here? I mean, I want to take your final exam so I don't need to continue to come to your class. At least, not your first year class." Harry gave her a polite smile. He was very good at those.

"I see. You think you can pass my final exam. Mr. Potter, you have only been in the school a week, this was your very first class in Transfiguration. You can't possibly-"

Harry sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, an oddly adult gesture on such a small face. He pulled out his wand and transfigured her inkwell into a frog.

XXXXX

Albus Dumbledore was having a most unusual afternoon.

First, Minerva McGonagall had come in looking slightly harassed. This was immediately followed by Flitwick. They then proceeded to get into a heated argument as to whether young Harry Potter had his father's gift for transfiguration or his mother's genius at charms.

He quite obviously possessed both because he had 'challenged' both classes very successfully, and all without any real training or preparation.

Albus was quite willing to place him in higher classes and leave it at that, the boy had inherited his parents' talents and wasn't that a good thing?

Then, in came Quirrell stuttering about Harry's DADA display.

"Alright!" Albus raised his hands for silence, "Harry was at a school for gifted children, he is obviously capable of considerable magical power, who is surprised by this?"

No one said anything.

"We will test him in these subjects and find out what level he should be learning at and place him in these classes. There's nothing complicated about it."

Except there was.

The next day he was approached, much more quietly of course, by Sinistra and Binns. Now how Harry could have acquired enough History of Magic to 'challenge' the ghost, the Headmaster had no idea, but challenge he had.

The third day of classes, Albus waited for Sprout to do the same. When she did not, he asked her at lunch.

"Potter? Charming boy, good with the plants. No, no he didn't say anything to me about 'challenges'. Is he having trouble adjusting?"

Now that was just odd. Why not Herbology?

Well, Severus had him that afternoon; maybe he would have some answers. Albus hadn't told him a thing about the subject, Severus was already biased enough when it came to the name 'Potter'. No, he wanted his… relatively objective opinion.

XXXXX

Harry was excited about Potions, even more so than he had been about Herbology. He took out his favourite black quill and some indigo ink, he would take notes in _this_ class, needed or not.

He was momentarily perturbed by the pause on his name in the roster, and the little celebrity comment, but then Snape did something that ensured his complete devotion to Potions forever.

He challenged him.

"Tell me, Mr. Potter, what is the difference between wolfsbane and monkshood?"

Harry was nearly knocked over by the bushy haired Gryffindor's arm but managed to stay upright, "That's a trick question, sir. They are the same plant. It's properly called 'aconite'. _Aconitum Napellus_. It's highly poisonous and commonly found in pastures and along streams in France, Germany, and Switzerland. It's used most often in-"

"And where would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?"

The girl, who had stopped flailing her arm to stare at him, put it up again, but much more hesitantly.

"Bezoar or 'enterolith': a stony concretion found in mostly ruminant animals' stomachs. I believe the most potent are found in goats. Wizards use it to neutralize most poisons but this doesn't work on Muggles, there was a case in 1575. It's actually mostly hair, of course, not-"

"And what would I get if I combined asphodel with an infusion of wormwood?"

"The Draught of Living Death, but sopophorous beans and valerian roots are also rather essential-"

"That's enough. Well, as you all can see, memorizing your text books will at least give you an undeserved-"

"Actually, Draught of Living Death is a sixth year potion, isn't it?"

Snape slammed the heavy tome on his desk closed, "List the ingredients of Polyjuice Potion."

"Shredded Boomslang Skin, Lacewing Flies stewed for twenty-one days, Leeches thinly sliced, powered Bicorn Horn, Knotgrass, Fluxweed picked during the full moon,"

And the next hour continued on in this manner, the class, as if observing a tennis match looked from the professor to him with every point covered.

Finally as Harry finished describing the properties of Strengthening Solution he managed to get a word in edgewise, "As much fun as I'm having, shouldn't we begin the Boil Cure Potion? I was hoping to get to some practical experience today."

Snape fixed him with a glare. Harry gave him his most polite smile.

XXXXX


	4. Chapter 4

Harry felt the same sense of calm in the Potions Lab that he had always felt in every other science lab he'd ever worked in. It was a Zen-like state that tunnelled his focus and soothed his often chaotic thoughts.

Careful, deft young hands prepared and measured ingredients. A gentle gesture, little more than a wiggle of his fingers, stoked the flames beneath his cauldron to the perfect temperature. The ladle was large in his grip but he controlled it without effort. Stirring widdershins than clockwise, exactness was an art in itself.

Done, he admired the perfection of his creation. It wasn't beautiful, but then most potions he'd seen were simply not meant to be aesthetically pleasing. He carefully ladled it into phials, choosing the unbreakable crystal that he'd admired in Sluggers and Jiggs. He'd bought enough of them.

He charmed his equipment and workstation clean and tucked away the majority of the potion into his bags. You never know when such a remedy could come in handy, and it would only be thrown out otherwise. He had a feeling student work was rarely put to use.

He'd put the last phial, neatly signed and labelled, onto Snape's desk when disaster struck. It was one of the Gryffindor's, a round-faced, nervous looking boy that had obviously seriously misjudged when to stir in his nettles.

Harry threw up a shield before the splash could do any damage to the other boy, but his cauldron was a complete loss, a melted hunk of still steaming metal. Snape descended upon the hapless Gryffindor like a vulture. Harry winced, well; at least he wasn't covered in boils and in pain.

But as Snape vented, Harry almost retracted that thought. Perhaps if Longbottom (after Snape had yelled it enough times, Harry could now safely assume that was the unfortunate boy's name) were obviously disfigured from his mishap, Snape may have relented and let him retreat to the hospital wing.

The red-headed boy next to Longbottom was not spared either, "Weasley! Why didn't you tell him not to add the nettles first? Did you think it would make you look better? Twenty points from Gryffindor!"

Harry tried to avoid the Potions Master's notice as he went back to his seat to no avail, "Potter! Where is your Boil Cure?"

"On your desk, sir." Maybe simple answers and honorifics would be enough.

Snape stalked towards the front of the room, Harry could almost feel the bushy-haired girl cringe next to him. The professor picked up the phial and held it to the light. He put it down again and seemed to be making an effort not to hurl it across the room.

"Well, Mr. Potter has managed to finish, why are the rest of you still lagging behind?" He barked.

Harry sighed, if you did poorly, it pissed the man off. Harry could understand that. But if you did well he got even angrier.

It was illogical enough to be intriguing in such an obviously logical individual. Harry pulled out his sketch book and began outlining Snape's form as he hunched over his desk.

"What are you doing?" It was Bushy Hair.

Harry didn't glance up, "I'd add the porcupine quills now, if I were you."

The girl flushed and immediately began to do so.

"Potter! No assisting!" Snape boomed.

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Right, Weasley was in trouble for not helping Longbottom and now he was in trouble for offering advice.

"Sorry, sir." He offered.

The man just glared. Harry studied him for a few seconds, memorizing the expression, and bent over his sketch to add it in.

XXXXX

Severus seated himself at the staff table and promptly froze. Albus was… twinkling. And this wasn't just the everyday twinkle, oh no, this was an all out _gleam._

"And how was your first year class today, Severus?"

The Potions Master clenched his jaw so hard a stab of pain shot down his neck, "Fine."

He certainly wasn't going to be the one to bring up… The Boy.

"He didn't ask to challenge your class either, then." The Headmaster looked thoughtful.

Severus blinked at him, "No… what?"

"Mr. Potter is proving to be quite a marvel. This weekend most of the staff will be testing him for, how did he put it? Ah yes, 'advanced placement'.

I must admit I find it curious that only Herbology and Potions were spared this request. Nothing unusual in your class at all?"

Severus pulled a face, when the Longbottom Disaster occurred he had first thought accidental magic had spared the boy a painful ordeal. Now that he thought about it, it had been a very clear Titan Block.

Which was a bloody N.E.W.T level defensive spell. Was he doomed to be lorded over by Potters until the end of his days?

And that wasn't even taking into account the boy's encyclopaedic knowledge of Severus' pet subject. And his perfect Boil Cure, the little bastard.

The entire bloody school was already talking about Potter's little trivia display, it was a damn good thing none of them had seen him save Longbottom as well. Severus blinked, shouldn't the boy have been boasting about it to anyone who would listen.

He glanced at his snakes. Potter was eating some sort of noodles with chopsticks. Of course the boy wonder would get his own private menu. But he wasn't talking to anyone.

Curious, clearly some inside information was needed.

XXXXX

Severus genuinely disliked Draco Malfoy. He was beyond spoiled; in fact, he had his own little category that Snape simply dubbed 'Malfoy' as an adjective.

But he was proving to be an excellent source of information already.

"Potter? Complete weirdo. He never talks to anyone. He's either in his room or in the library. And when he comes to meals it's always something odd. He was eating raw fish during the Welcoming Feast. I had to switch places with Crabbe so I wouldn't be sick!"

"What does his room look like?" Snape asked, thinking this might be a good indicator of the boy's mental state.

"No idea, he never leaves his door open. AND it's warded to the gills. The Head Boy couldn't get in there. I don't think the Headmaster could get in there! He's supposed to be the Boy Who Lived, why is he such a freak?"

Malfoy looked quite put out; Snape supposed the little twerp had fancied himself a best friend candidate to the famous Potter. It was too bad that position didn't seem to be open for applications.

Snape made some sort of noncommittal noise of 'sympathy', "Have you tried talking to him when he isn't eating raw fish?"

Draco fidgeted, "No, he comes in from outside all sweaty every morning. It's disgusting. Maybe I could try in class or something. What do you want me to say?"

Snape rolled his eyes, "Never mind, he's out every morning, you say?"

"Yeah, he must get up at a revoltingly early hour. He never raises his hand in class. Though, if he knows so much about potions he must know other things, right? Why isn't he getting us points?"

Snape resisted the urge to agree, with House prejudice the way it was Slytherin could use all the help it could get. But apparently the boy was not a show off. It was almost disappointing when he thought of it that way, "Well, he won't be in many more of your classes as of next week. I think Herbology and Potions are the only first year courses he's taking."

"Potter gets to move ahead and I don't." Malfoy actually started to look nervous, "My father isn't going to like this."

Severus felt a reluctant pang of sympathy.

But it abruptly evaporated with the boy's next muttered remark.

"I'll get him for that."

"Do I need to remind you that Potter is also a Slytherin? Do you imagine you can harm him with impunity? I just told you he's advancing in nearly all his classes, something I don't think has EVER been done at this school, and you want to incur his wrath?" Snape asked incredulously, he didn't like the boy but he had thought him a bit more intelligent than this.

"I'm not afraid of him! My father taught me all kinds of things about being a Slytherin, you know. This is important, I'm a Malfoy. I have to be in control."

Snape's jaw clenched again, yes, Malfoys always need to be in control, don't they? Lucius had been one of many factors that had made Severus' own school days a living hell.

Against his every personal inclination, he quietly began rooting for the Potter brat at least in his own thoughts.

XXXXX

After breakfast on Saturday morning, Harry was tested in Transfiguration and Charms. That afternoon came History of Magic (the most boring because it was entirely magic-less) and Defence Against the Dark Arts.

In was in DADA that Harry began to have his doubts.

Professor Quirrell was faking a stutter. It wasn't consistent enough and sometimes he fumbled over the wrong parts of his sentences. He hadn't noticed this at first, he hadn't really paid much attention in the single class he'd had with the man.

So what else was he faking?

And Quirrell was entirely too interested in his abilities. All the other teachers had merely looked… shell shocked and twitchy. But Professor Quirrell seemed to be testing him in a completely different way.

This would bear watching.

XXXXX

When Severus entered the Sunday staff meeting, Potter's influence was clear. Minerva had a drink in her hand at one o'clock in the afternoon, for one.

"I'm telling you it just isn't _natural_. Yes, both his parents were very talented, but this is ridiculous! He's capable of human transfiguration! I watched an eleven year old boy change Flitwick into a pigeon!"

"I was a pigeon!" Flitwick added loudly, Severus noticed the tiny Charms Master's own glass.

"So he needs to write his O.W.Ls. You want him in seventh year classes, that's what this comes down to." Albus was stroking his beard.

Severus really needed an Ear Cleaning Solution apparently, "Pardon me, Headmaster. Seventh year classes? You can't be serious!"

"D-Do you know what he said to me when I told him about the O.W.Ls?" Minerva asked him. Severus just blinked at her, assuming this was a rhetorical question.

"He said- he said he wanted to get Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, Muggle Studies, and Divination out of the way as well. He's never even taken those courses!"

Albus broke in, "Interestingly enough, he seems content in Potions and Herbology. And he expressed interest in Care of Magical Creatures. For the life of me I can't figure out why. Is he having difficulty in your class, Severus? Pomona seems to think he's doing more than adequately in hers."

"Well, it's rather obvious, isn't it?" Snape smirked at finally having _something_ over the mad old codger, "He wants practical experience. He rattled off a ridiculous amount of theory to me when I quizzed him, but theory isn't everything, not in Potions certainly. He's clearly bright enough to understand that."

"How does he _know_ these things? I'll admit he had nearly a week in the library before school began but this is ridiculous! You know, when I was watching him do these unbelievable things," Minerva got suddenly serious and the room quieted down, "I could just see in his eyes. He understood what he was doing, really, really understood it. Maybe- maybe better than I do myself. Albus, it's like there's absolutely no learning curve! No need for repetition or explanation, it gives me gooseflesh."

Albus sat forward at this pronouncement, "Minerva, do you sense any… hostility from this boy."

McGonagall took a bracing drink and shook her head, "No, there's no… malevolence in him, at least I didn't see any. But there was no pride in his accomplishments, no joy in success, either."

"Severus, you're his Head of House. Do you think Harry Potter could be a problem?"

Snape felt his own gooseflesh when he realized what the Headmaster was asking. _Do you think we have another Dark Lord in the making?_

XXXXX


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: I'm terribly sorry for the delay. I received a perfect Christmas gift of the DVD boxed set of Jeeves & Wooster and it lured me away into yet ANOTHER fandom. I plead at least with the P.G. Wodehouse fans to understand my plight. You get it don't you? How can I resist? **

**Of course now I need to read all eleven novels and every last short story to get the very particular writing style down before I even attempt my own inventions. So for now, I give you Harry Potter.**

Severus sat as straight as he possibly could. The weight of the matter at hand wanted to press him into a slump but he resisted. Dumbledore shut and warded his office entrance.

"Severus, I feel the need to convey to you the urgency in which I feel the need to resolve this question. I had not expected Harry Potter to be sorted into Slytherin. I had not expected the extent of his… talents. I must say this worries me a great deal. Tell me every thing you know about this boy."

Wishing he knew a great deal more than he did, Severus described the Institute and went on to the little he knew of the child himself, "Potter displayed to me a knowledge of Potions theory and history that quite frankly left me speechless, Headmaster. I do not know how he has acquired such a depth of understanding in the subject- in fact any Hogwarts subject- in such a short span of time.

His Boil Cure was flawless, his manners and bearing above reproach. Potter does not interact with other members of my house. I do not know if he does so with other houses-"

"He does not." Dumbledore interjected.

So the old man had already be asking questions, watching, waiting.

"I am told that during free times Mr. Potter is either in the library or his room. He seems rather… anti-social, though I have never witnessed him being less than perfectly courteous. He does not volunteer answers or information but will respond correctly and… thoroughly if asked directly."

"He is equally polite to everyone? Teacher, student, muggleborn, pure-blood?"

"In so far as I have seen, sir." Severus clenched the hands folded in his lap convulsively.

Dumbledore had folded his hands together and tucked them under his chin, "I'm not going to lie to you, Severus. The possibility that Harry Potter could be the next Dark Lord has occurred to me. The thought is most unnerving. He displays an intellect that already casts even Tom Riddle's brilliance in shadow. Both his power and, most disconcertingly, his control of that power are immense. Unlike Voldemort I do not believe it would be necessary for him to gather power from outside sources.

This boy has the potential to be very dangerous. What I want to know, is will he. I am relieved that he clearly does not have quite the same goals as Voldemort, but it is almost more frightening that we don't know what his goals are at all. If he were entrenched in the pure-blood cause we might attempt to convince him otherwise, in such an intelligent boy, I don't believe that would be difficult.

But we are at an impasse without further information. Severus, I believe that as his head of house you are an ideal candidate to befriend the boy. You have experience in the field of espionage and are an accomplished Occlumens. I'm confident you are the man for the job."

"You want me to spy on, Potter." Severus sat back, he hadn't even realised that he'd been leaning so far forward.

"I need you to be my eyes and ears, Severus. Surely despite his… anti-social nature he is not immune to the lure of debate and intelligent conversation. Chess is a mighty tool of such things, for example. I believe the boy has even expressed interest in the subjects nearest and dearest to your heart.

Try to gauge his motives and report to me anything he may confide in you, no matter how minor. I was unable to prevent Tom Riddle becoming Lord Voldemort, and I positively shudder to think of what Harry Potter may become."

XXXXX

Severus' thoughts were consumed with his new assignment; surely Potter could not be a Legilimens? The headmaster had remarked on Severus' own Occluded state, but…

Minerva's voice had carried into the corridor while he and Albus had been on there way to the office.

"And when I asked him why he was reading The History and Theory of Animagi, he told me it sounded like something he might do 'over the weekend'."

This was immediately followed but the sound of ice cracking as another drink was poured.

The Animagus Transformation was in a class of its own in Advanced Transfiguration. It was worth considerable bonus marks on the N.E.W.T if one could demonstrate it. Very few students attempted it; it was a much more common pursuit of Transfiguration apprentices and the retired.

If Harry Potter managed such a feat without tutoring at the age of eleven, Mental Magic was probably effortless. Severus almost unconsciously strengthened his shields.

XXXXX

Harry followed behind his Slytherin year mates with a resigned air. Flying lessons didn't interest him terribly but he was willing to admit it would be a viable skill to obtain.

He was personally looking forward to the age where _driving_ lessons could be taken, but as that was at least five years away he would make do with Wizarding modes of transport.

Except apparition, of course, which was also age restricted. Harry had deliberately gone outside the Hogwarts wards one day at lunch just to try this out. It hadn't given him any difficulty and was much preferable to the use of a port key which gave Harry a rather sour stomach.

But as he glanced down the row of other children he could certainly understand why some rules needed to be placed. Honestly, boys his physical age were positively _mental. _There must be some kind of chemical imbalance.

Indeed, more than once Harry had considered nicking a place setting from the great hall to test it for lead, considering the headmaster that would just explain _so _much.

Or perhaps it was in the water supply?

He commanded the broom into his hand and it responded with appeasing swiftness. The vessel thrummed in his hand most pleasantly.

Unfortunately, his further enjoyment was interrupted once more by the Longbottom boy. Harry was a little shocked when none of the other students, or at the very least Madam Hooch _the flying instructor_, did nothing to stop the rapidly rising and obviously out of control broom.

Harry snapped out his wand with no further hesitation, "_SISTERE_!"

The broom predictably halted at once and Harry lowered both shaking pale-faced boy and rogue broomstick safely to the ground. Harry decided he would ensure he was as close as possible to this boy in the near future. Clearly he was disaster waiting to happen.

And promptly after Madam Hooch turned her back once more, Longbottom was in trouble again. This time it was at least less of a life threatening matter.

Albino Twit had apparently absconded with a Rememberall formerly in Longbottom's possession. It was most irritating to listen to.

Harry had finally heard enough. He used his wand deliberately; again, hoping the Gryffindor boy might learn something and said clearly, "_Accio_ Rememberall."

He ignored Albino Twit's squawk and handed over the coveted ball of glass. The smoke inside immediately turned red the moment Longbottom took it.

"Th-thank you. Oh, no!"

When a red-headed Gryffindor began listing things the other boy may have forgotten, Harry tuned them out.

It turned out flying was a great deal of fun after all.

XXXXX


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: Since some reviewers are concerned about shipping in this story, I thought I should mention that as Harry is still physically and emotionally eleven, any relationship is several years away. For now, this is a friendship story.**

**In aside, when Harry actually begins interacting with people he will make a great many references. Does anyone else like challenges the way Harry does, beloved reviewers? Can you get them all? Nothing is exempt: literary, film, pop culture, philosophical, historical, scientific, mathematic, musical, artistic, political, all references to the Muggle world Harry is still attached to.**

**One of Harry's great early frustrations will be getting Severus to understand him and what he's talking about.**

Harry was in the library working his way through _Defensive Duelling Strategies _when a shadow loomed over him. Professor Snape was reading over his shoulder. Perhaps he needed the book for something.

"Can I help you, Professor Snape?" He put on a politely expectant expression.

XXXXX

In all the time he'd spent stewing over his new assignment, he'd neglected to point out to Albus that he, in fact, did not know _how _to befriend someone.

This thought only occurred to him when Potter asked what he wanted. In the most courteous tones possible, of course.

When he'd begun scripting the conversation in his head he hadn't realised how stilted and unnatural he would sound. A switch in tactics was required.

"You don't fool me, Potter. You're flipping through that book much too fast to be getting anything out of it."

Potter raised an eyebrow, "Am I?"

Severus sat down in an adjacent seat, "You can't possibly expect anyone to believe you can read that quickly. You haven't spent more than half a minute on a page."

A small, amused small graced the boy's pretty face, he reached over and slid a small pile of books in front of them both, "Pick one."

Snape had the distinct feeling he was walking into something, he perused the stack and chose one of the more obscure texts on experimental charms. He waved it at Potter.

"Pick a page."

The hairs on the back of Severus' neck seemed to stand straight up; he flipped through the book with slightly numb fingers, "Page 346."

"It starts in the beginning of a sentence: _and water fowl. Tiberius Aurelius, whose major works are considered standard at Merlin University, developed, among other things, the major branches of concealing charms and the…."_

Harry continued on until the end of the page. Now completely numb, Severus nearly let the book slip from his fingers, "You read that today?"

"It's called an eidetic memory. If I have experienced it, I remember it. Thoroughly. And yes, I'm an unusually fast reader."

"How long- is it permanent? Do you forget things?"

"Well, I wouldn't know if I had forgotten would I?" And Severus saw for the first time the hint of a real smile, "But as far as I know, it's forever. Why?"

Feeling speechless and adrift Severus grasped for an answer. He'd always been more talented than most in remembering details, always quick with a history date or an alternate word.

But the implications of this were staggering.

Potter had returned to his book once the silence had stretched out for more than a few minutes. Severus appreciated the time to absorb.

"Are you interested in duelling?" Severus asked, wondering if the question sounded as stupid to Potter as it did to him just now.

But the boy didn't seem to think it odd to ask if he was actually interested in the subject he was immersing himself in, "Yes, though I have to say practical application would be a better gauge of that. It's a pity Hogwarts doesn't have a duelling club."

"I could- I mean, we could duel. If you wanted the practice." Severus held his breath, this could be the link.

Potter seemed to be startled by the suggestion but his features became politely interested soon after, "I would be most appreciative of any tutelage you'd be willing to provide, Professor Snape. But I have to point out the obvious _quid pro quo_. What would you like in return?"

Severus thought quickly, an answer of 'nothing' was certainly not going to be believed. Even the slightest hint of suspicion and this boy would have it all figured out.

"It has come to my attention that you do not participate in class as much as you should. I know that you know the answers, why don't you volunteer them and get points for your house?"

Potter studied him, nonplussed. Absinthe coloured eyes seemed to be cataloguing his every nuance. Severus drew on every skill he'd ever picked up in the war and occluded furiously.

"If it is important to you, I'll make more of an effort to secure the House Cup for Slytherin." The boy replied and Severus got the distinct impression he was being indulged.

XXXXX

In dealing with the Institute, Harry manipulated them shamelessly. It was all in the name of Wizarding Secrecy, of course.

In his first e-mail he dropped several hints that would lead them to believe he'd been 'pouched' by a government. This was common in the world of higher thought, after all.

They would probably assume Japan as they knew how much Harry had loved Kyoto. Japan certainly had the wealth to lure him away as well as the technological innovation to keep him occupied.

He did leave an Easter Egg in the slightly apologetic message. For a reasonable stipend deposited directly into his English accounts he would be willing to continue reviewing projects and returning results.

Less than two hours later his Institute e-mail had half a dozen new problems for him to solve.

As Harry set aside his magical studies for the evening and began designing schematics for propulsion adjusters he felt a certain measure of satisfaction. He could live in both worlds. If he kept dividing himself this way, the challenge would always be there.

He hoped.

Harry paused for a moment thinking of the possibility that sooner or later he was going to run out of challenge. Sooner or later there would be nothing left to conquer.

He thought of Alexander the Great, one of his favourite historical figures. The man conquered the known world by the age of thirty-three and wept when he realized there were no more worlds to take on.

Of course, there had been, but they had been beyond the reach of Alexander and largely unchallenging. If the Europeans of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries had managed, after all, Alexander's army would have done twice the job in half the time.

And most likely wouldn't have relied on biological warfare to do the job.

It didn't bare thinking about, the line between genius and madness was thin enough already.

Harry bent over his graft and applied himself.

XXXXX

Neville Longbottom jumped nearly out of his seat when _Harry Potter_ set his books on the work table next to him and sat down.

His hands immediately began to sweat. He watched the other boy carefully from the corner of his eye.

_Harry Potter _was rifling through parchment as if he were any other boy. As if he weren't famous and brilliant and perfect.

Why in the name of Merlin was _Harry Potter _sitting next to him?

Ron Weasley gave them both a strange look as he sat down behind them. Neville offered him a hopeless shrug.

Professor Snape also looked at them strangely when he was taking attendance. Neville felt his heart race; he hoped this wouldn't inspire Snape to new heights of ire with him.

He hated potions. He hated everything about this classroom from its strange lingering smells to the slimy, sharp, or toxic ingredients. He was terrified of the teacher and generally felt like a great disaster was looming on the horizon when he so much as stepped into the room.

When Professor Snape had given them the order to begin, Neville began arranging his equipment with shaky hands. He paused to watch _Harry Potter _arrange his own with rapid, precise movements.

"You need to dice those into finer pieces."

Neville very nearly diced his own finger when this suggestion broke the silence. He looked at the other boy, trying to school his features into something other than blind panic.

But his seatmate's attention was completely on their potions. He moved his own cutting board closer, "The finer the dice, the more evenly the parts dissolve."

Neville began trying to recreate _Harry Potter's _perfect example.

"Make one turn counter clockwise for every seven clockwise."

Neville finally managed to find his voice, "B-but that's not in the text book."

"I know, but it's in _Mordred's Medical Miscellany _and _1001 Helpful Potions Hints. _It makes the reaction a bit smoother."

Neville stirred.

XXXXX


	7. Chapter 7

"You want me to read Muggle books?" Severus eyed the towering stack on his desk. The night before, he and Potter had had their first duelling 'lesson'. Severus had woken you that morning sore in places he'd forgotten he'd had.

But Potter had left him looking perturbed. They'd made several attempts at conversation between bouts of spellfire and Severus had been embarrassed to just look at the boy blankly. Potter had squinted at him and stopped shouting 'cannons to the left of them, cannons to the right of them' and asked, "You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?"

And then this morning he'd shown up and began stacking books on his desk.

"If we are going to continue to converse, having to explain forty to sixty percent of my references is unacceptable. I refuse to pander to the illiterate if they make no efforts to better themselves." Potter tapped out each syllable of his rebuttal like one would notes on a piano on the cover of something called _Leaves of Grass_.

"ILLITERATE! I'll have you know that between the ages of six and eleven I read the entire contents of my grandfather's bookshelves."

"Yes, interesting, a complete segue into a disturbing childhood anecdote of isolation but interesting nonetheless. We should exchange them sometime.

I'm not saying you can't read. I bow to your mastery of consuming Dark Arts and Potions anthologies. I'm just saying that you have no grasp of literature!" Potter helpfully picked up something called _The Grapes of Wrath _and waved it at him to illustrate.

"I have read my share of fictional dribble, thank you. I have no desire for more."

There was an audible thud as Potter dropped his head against the desk, "Yes, you've read fictional dribble, WIZARDING fictional dribble. I'm surprised most wizards can write well enough to compose a complete sentence let alone a story. Everything in this world revolves around magic. There's no room here for anything else.

But the Muggles need to create their own magic. And they do it with words, with music, with a paintbrush. They devote themselves to their creations and share them with the world entire.

Wizards make lovely paintings with spells and their music is palatable if not anything I'd call 'good'. They can't write worth a damn. It's just not-"

Potter lifted his head to regard Severus again and broke off because the Potions Master had begun glancing through the stack.

"Is this one any good, then?" Severus asked gruffly after a few moments.

He was holding up one of the leather bound volumes of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Potter smiled then, it was genuine and beautiful and Severus felt something twist inside.

XXXXX

Severus startled at the sound of chimes from his bedroom. He realised abruptly that he had; in fact, spend the entire night pouring over the previously maligned Muggle bibliography Potter had supplied him with.

Damn the boy for being right.

XXXXX

Severus had quickly taken to keeping a small tablet of parchment and a quill on him at all times.

When Potter referred to the O.W.L examiner for History of Magic as _La Belle Dame sans Merci _he wrote it down and found his answer in the glossary of a hefty English poetry anthology.

When they had been arguing about Potions analysis and Potter had barked about something called 'Occam's Razor' it took quite a while to track down.

Unaccustomed to feeling stupid, Severus struggled to keep up. There was just so very much more to Muggles than he had ever imagined.

Muggles! Muggles had created things of unspeakable beauty with not a flicker of magic to aid them. Potter had begun teaching him to use his computer. He was still trying to grasp the fact that a small box could show you the wonders and horrors of the world and yet magic was not what did it.

Potter had a dozen charms on his laptop to power it, to protect it, and to tap into 'the world wide web' as he called it. But the essential nature of the thing was scientific, not magical, Potter had explained.

He'd also gone on to say that science worked, that it was almost parallel to magic in a way because both seemed to be able to coincide in one universe where all the laws applied somehow in someway.

Severus, over the past few days had been jolted several times by the reminder that he was not really friends with the boy, because often he forgot. They'd begin duelling and Potter was just so strong and so fast there was room for nothing but reaction.

Then they would talk. And Potter could talk, he could talk beautifully. He wove sentences the same as he did his wand, creating ripples in the very fabric of reality somehow.

Potter had some knowledge of just about everything and he used it masterfully. Severus found himself moving away slightly from the painful envy he felt for the boy. It was still there, Potter's beauty and brilliance were incredibly envious things, but there was more to him now that Severus had penetrated his ivory tower.

Potter had a wicked and often twisted sense of humour and he was the most observant person Severus had ever met. Potter found human antics endlessly amusing, but he was not really condescending at all. Slightly indulgent and oddly parental, but not in a way that suggested he thought he was better than everyone else.

He did come out with a good line just about everyday, something so dry and witty it made Severus nearly _giggle_ for the rest of the day.

Potter was now lying prostrate on the floor, he'd been could in a backlash and taken a nasty fall, but didn't look hurt.

"Well, that would have been easier if you hadn't been six feet off the ground at the time."

Potter glowered up at him for that comment and spoke, "Yes, thank you. Such thoughts did occur to _me_ as I approached the floor with gathering speed."

And Severus buckled, he couldn't help it.

Potter grinned wryly, "And for God's sake will the Wizarding world finally join every other sane country on the planet and adopt the Metric System!"

XXXXX

Harry did very well on his O.W.Ls; no one at the school was surprised. But the examiners took no time at all telling the media about Harry Potter, Boy Genius.

Dumbledore met twice with Minister Fudge, the first time the other man was in a panic about what Harry's nature meant. Was he smarter than the Ministry? Would people begin listening to him?

Most people would do just about anything for the Boy Who Lived already.

But after the public reacted with an almost relieved pleasure that their saviour was so extraordinary, he returned entirely enthusiastic about the news.

Dumbledore watched the reporters on the edge of the Hogwarts grounds; he'd forbidden them to enter. But he knew…certain people always got in somehow.

And Fudge was the real problem. He wanted Harry at the Ministry; he promised the boy would have anything he wanted. It fell to Dumbledore to keep Harry here and safe.

He would continue to work through Severus. The boy might stay just to be near his first friend.

And they were becoming friends, he could see it. He worried that Severus was actually forgetting the purpose behind the charade and that it was a charade after all.

But no matter, Severus Snape was his man. He'd been the one to keep him out of Azkaban, after all. He owed no loyalty to any Potter.

Dumbledore unwrapped a sherbet lemon; no poor Severus had never had friends either. He was just caught up in the unusual circumstances. He would come around and keep the boy on a short leash.

A leash Harry wouldn't even be aware of.

XXXXX


End file.
